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Cry Wolf

 

having been bit; my blood infested with his poison. Split into multiple parts: some hurt, some felt I was an angel, some blasted doctors after diagnosis, some seduced men working in hats, some drove for hours filled with brain factory material. I could not reel myself in. Tie my boat to the anchor and stay in one place. So many blood factories, so many docs talking sideways glancing at charts, detesting their ambivalence I decided to be my own cure. Create a chasm between disease and nocturnal health as my body filtered the futility at midnight. Under a poetry light I aquired resonance with the sounds of life.

Praying God, don't let me suffocate in my own juices. If it must be, the heart is tired; the mood is sacred and my own mother said she'd meet me there. Above the characters

who play on hardening of heart. My face may be a sculpture, but, my heart will always

be as pliable as the clay dropped on a wheel spinning. Forming the bowl my ashes may go in. not to be morbid; but, those coffins were ridiculous plush beds for bone decay. I could not see myself dropped down on a silk pillow. no, just splash me over the water

and somehow my angelic self will bring up smoke on the water; and miles in the sky.

my prognosis: a dying woman who is thriving out of sheer rage. Who the hell thought I would go this way. Not the way a striking woman falls apart. Not the way I go and not the way my face surrenders to strife. Sculpt me an angel until my assignments down here

are finished. I live a halo glowing in the dark. Suddenly dissappear. Suddenly gone.

and all my children would light candles at night when they heard me whisper past their

bed post. All the answers they needed. The umbilical chord would re appear and I would naturally know the nourishment they cried for.

I would never, not once, not ever be abandoned to the grave.

goldieinpain goldieinpain 41-45, F Oct 1, 2009

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